In the Rain

He smiles
sky tears running the wrinkles in his warm
smiling face
 
Drenched
he waits for me to speak
 
“Old man
why are you out here in the rain?”
He says
“My thoughts were a bit dry
Needed a little watering.”
 
“Aren’t you guys supposed to wear a pointed hat?”
He says
“I doubt it would do much in this deluge.”
 
A time passes
 
He says
“You are walking in a darkness
and though you can’t see it now
You are not alone.”
 
“Old man
why are you out here in the rain?”
He says
“A dear friend is standing in the rain
and she looks so lost and alone.”
 
“Maybe your friend is cursed
Has no right to happiness
Has no need for society.”
 
And he laughs
(might be a cough)
“Not this one, she lives on the edge
She is spirited and gifted
She is a swan raised by ducks. . .
Indignant, resourceless ducks with really bad attitudes
but she is not cursed.”
 
“Old man
get in out of the rain.”
He says
“I’m am far too old to do as I’m told
Never done it before
Not gonna start now
 
Gentle one, your soul, your heart are not dead.
Love never dies
Even if you resign
it will not leave you.”
 
And just like that the old fool starts dancing
Dancing in the rain

The Portable Electric Poet

 

Your portable cordless electric poet
is made with maximum materials
to the highest specifications of oral hygiene

Please be certain to rinse your poet after every use
to keep your poet fresh and prevent mold

Please be certain to store your electric poet
in a cool dry place when not in use

You can tell all your friends about the way
your electric poet pleases you and helps you smile

With proper care your purchase will give you years of pleasure
and very nice teeth

A Poetry Kind of Day

 

Oh such a lovely, lovely day
Perfect for poetry
Totally overcast
drizzly, miserable and occasional obligatory lightning
Helter and kelter, all that summer swelter
poof – gone

And what’s more in keeping with days like this
than the poetry of lost lovers and other pitiable creatures
All miserable and muttled and . . .
And me

The world outside the window is pewter fog
A crimson leaf slaps the window and sticks
I remember your hand on the railing
Why can’t I see your face?
Your footprint?

In dreams I run after you
On those rare times when I actually snag your arm
A stranger’s face turns to me
And I can see nothing in the fog
Your foot print in the driveway
leaving

Poetry
Totally drizzly, miserable stanzas devoid of summer swelter
And my whole body is hungry for you

I hate poetry

No Longer Afraid

 

Having spent a very long and stormy night
losing the ‘what if?’ game
For no reason at all
I decide to play the ‘mindfulness’ game

Here
in the trailing days of a lingering summer swelter
I become – unstuck
Somehow this moment falls away
swirling like that leaf

I reflect on the refractions of Autumn
Autumns past
Autumns to come

Yellow poplar
Scarlet maple
Rust red oak

And look
Pathways in the dancing leaf shadows
Pathways beyond number. . .

Autumn

Autumn’s mists and mellow fruitfulness

A slow sun drenched afternoon

A blood red Japanese maple worn by the tiny teeth of time

Maple, and oak and magnolia and. . .

Leaves of umber, ocher and amber dancing in a light wind

A zephyr really

A handful of gnats twirl and swirl

The Wizard and the Storm

The harvest moon ascends into a roiling late-summer night
Cloud dragons delight in concealing her dreamy glow
The stars have gone
the sky is darker than a lost lover’s heart

The Wizard sets aside his hat, his coat and vest
Withdraws a wand from his vest
He addresses the darkness

A tone poem builds in his chest
His bare hands reach into the firmament
A sizzling electricity builds in the air

His weathered face does not crack when he smiles
(though there are those who might say it would)
His eyes are closed but there seems a dancing light
flashing behind his lids
He lifts his wand like a conductor
calling an orchestra to order

The howling winds flow through his fingers
Barely contained
Waiting for his domination or a moment’s inattention
Lightning fire fuses water and air
Sonorous thunder
dragon laughter seeks to crush him
His laughter answers

Pelting rain bombards everything
adding staccato to the dark drum thunder-music
He weaves the night into a symphonic poem
All of a piece
A single continuous movement in maelstrom minor
Chords of discord collide and sizzle

Franz Liszt would have been proud

In the center of the tumult
Soaked to the bone
The Wizard cups his hands and gathers the turbulent waters
Lifts to to his lips . . .
Ferocious sable silk, the song of the storm flows
down his throat
Quenching a thirst
centuries old